The Gauntlet of Fire
by Funkas
Summary: Twas the night before Quidditch, and all through the house, a few creatures were stirring… except for a mouse. Or rat. Cuz of course a rat would be the one to rat. Honestly, didn't they like… wonder about that? Anyways, rated MA for porn. Armolly, Harry, Rarry, Hermione, Permione, Permionny, Armionharrmolly, uhh… watch out! Haha
1. A Husband's Love

J.K. Rowling owns all things Harry Potter

* * *

Scents of grass and honeysuckle wafted through the dark garden, mixing with the sticky-sweet smell of finished ice cream bowls and dying candles. Mrs. Weasley sat back, content, watching Bill explain his adventures to Ginny. The rest of the conversations around them had lulled to sleepy murmuring, and Mrs. Weasley thought it couldn't have been a more perfect evening. But - she realized with a start, it was one that had to end early, if everything was to run smoothly in the morning.

"Look at the time," she said, checking her watch. Everyone's face turned her way. "You should really be in bed, the lot of you - you'll be up at the crack of dawn for the Cup!"

Taking charge, she roused everyone from the table and sent them to the house. There weren't any complaints for once, though there was still the inevitable argument that broke out when Percy found out about his Norwegian fertilizer sample actually being from Fred and George.

"Did you want help with the dishes, Mum?" Ginny offered, having stayed back.

Mrs. Weasley smiled.

"Oh, that's alright, love," she said. "You run along to bed. You'll need your energy to keep that lot in check tomorrow!"

She grinned and ran off, and then it was just her and Arthur there to button everything up for the night.

"I think that went rather well, don't you?" she said.

"It was absolutely lovely, dear."

His face was rosy with wine. Smiling to herself, she began scooping up the silverware, and Arthur (after a soft grunt) got up to help her.

"Now you've got everything packed?" she said.

"I should…" he said. "Perkins's tent, cooking ware, matches…"

"Clothes?"

A grin appeared on his face.

"Do I ever. Got a spare set as well. Perhaps I'll show them off before we turn in for the night?"

"You and your Muggle things," she laughed, and gave him a quick peck on the lips. "How about your work?"

"It's been a rush of a week, let me tell you," he said, disenchanting candles. "But I think I'm in a good spot. I've made it as easy on Perkins as I can… I think he should be able to handle the rest."

"And what about you, then? Think you'll be able to handle that crowd?"

She nodded toward the house. The windows on the upper floors had lit up and everyone was milling about in their rooms. Even from out in the garden, she could hear the loud conversations through the walls and old windows.

Mrs. Weasley looked at her husband, and saw him watching the scene with a loving smile on his face. This was really all thanks to him, she knew. He worked so hard at the Ministry, and put up with so much without ever letting it get to him. Everyday he came home exhausted, but he was forever cheerful, and would brighten right back up as soon as he saw her or anyone else in their family.

"I guess we'll see," said Arthur. "But I think I'll be able to take care of them."

Cozying in beside him, she drew his attention and gave him a kiss. A naughty thought crossed her mind.

"Perhaps you can take care of me too," she said, "before you leave on holiday."

His eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Oh-ho!" he said. "Well, Mrs. Weasley, I'll see what I can do."

"Good," she grinned.

They gathered up the candles and other table settings and started toward the house.

"What would you say if I wore my Muggle outfit?" said Arthur.

She gaped at him, and they laughed.

"As long as it's you, I don't mind what you wear," she said.

They came in through the dutch door and found the house quieting down. Mrs. Weasley flashed her wand at the sink to get the dishes going, and Arthur gave her a kiss on the cheek as he stowed the supplies in their drawers. The living room was quiet. The clock in the kitchen ticked, then struck the hour and starting playing a soft tune.

Arthur came up to her and took her hands, catching her by surprise. He moved her in a small circle. His breath warmed the air between them. She giggled at his silliness, but copied his movements and let herself draw in close to him.

"You're really quite drunk," she muttered softly.

"Am I?" he said, as if he wasn't at all. It made her heart swell.

They swayed there in the kitchen, passing between soft light and shadow, to a tune they'd heard a thousand times. They then went up the stairs to their bedroom, where they embraced and kissed. Arthur undressed, and she cast a muffling charm on the door and walls. Then he undressed her, surprising her by having put on a stubby Muggle tie, which made her laugh. They got into bed, and eventually made their way into tender love making, until they were both buzzing in afterglow and shaking with stifled laughter.

He tapped her on nose with a finger.

"There's my Molly-wobbles," he said.

She squeezed her eyes shut to ward off his sweetness.

"Oh, you!"

Of course, in her haste, Mrs. Weasley had forgotten to muffle the ceiling. And somewhere above this was a pipe, or a beam, that wound all the way up through the house and had transmitted their sounds far better than any tin can and string could. And on the other side of this lay Harry Potter, who was now, suffice it to say, quite awake.


	2. The Boy and the Balm

Harry stared at the ceiling, covered by a thin, mildewy blanket. His heart was thumping. Half an hour ago he'd been all set to follow Ron and the twins into a snoring, peaceful slumber, but something had awoken inside him. Specifically, down in his borrowed pair of pajama bottoms.

He looked to the side, across the room at where Ron slept. His face felt hot. Everything felt hot. There was something he definitely had to take care of. But he couldn't do it if anyone was up.

Of course, it sounded like Ron was sleeping… his breaths were quiet enough… although it was nowhere near the level of snoring coming from Fred and George at the feet of the bed. Harry took his glasses from the old windowsill and wedged them onto his face, but still couldn't tell anything by Ron's pale, peaceful expression.

He turned back to himself. The fabric in his pants was taut against something thick and solid. He had to risk it. Breath held, Harry gingerly pulled the blanket off and began working the waistline of his pajamas down. He revealed his skinny waistline, the muscles of his pelvic area directing him onward. The pajamas dragged beneath his butt, and he hopped softly to let them slip.

The shaft base came into sight. It was thicker than it had ever been before, moving with his heartbeat. It was trying to stand erect, but the waistline had it stuck. Had the pajama cloth always been so rough, or was it just his swelling?

He looked to the side once more - Ron hadn't moved. Harry didn't even want to think of what he'd say if he saw him now. But he couldn't go back, or he'd never fall asleep at all. With another quick nudge at the taut waistline he came free, springing into the air. It stuck up and twitched like the caught second-hand on an old wristwatch. Transfixed, Harry grasped it.

Keeping his grip relaxed, he slid down, the skin of his fingers and palm brushing over his new flesh. Desire grew, building at the center and glowing to the exterior of his shaft, dropping down and fanning out across the skin of his groin. He brought his hand up, grip tighter, and released another wave. _Oh my god,_ he thought. He stroked again, and again, shame burning on his cheeks at what he was doing - or closer to the point, where he was doing it.

But the sounds he'd heard. Mrs. Weasley's gasps, Mr. Weasley's grunts. Their breaths. He replayed them in his memory, stroking himself. It set his mind on fire.

Though he was hardly accomplishing much. In fact, his soft touch was only making it worse. And if he gripped any tighter, which he sorely needed to do, it was like squeezing one of those tube jelly toys Dudley sometimes brought home from the museum, and no satisfaction came.

He looked at Ron again, holding his breath. Ron was still asleep. But who knew how long that would last, if he went for it as much as he wanted? Harry took air in through his nose, listening to all the breathing in the room, while his solid warmth beat in his hand. He squeezed, gently, but only built is urge further.

Clearly, something had to be done. And it couldn't be done here, that much was obvious. His thoughts went to the bathroom. Yes, that might work… that'd be perfect. Sheathing himself, he carefully got off the mattress and edged his way through the maze of beds that'd been crammed in the room. He stepped with the softness of somebody who'd been locked in a cupboard for twelve years and got yelled at for even putting a toe out of line. He made his way between the twins, holding the rod in his pants tight against his left leg. He got to the doorway - twisted the thick, metal knob - and pulled.

A groan of wood split the air. He froze. But it wasn't nearly enough for him to slip through. He gave it a moment, then opened it a few more inches. It groaned twice more, snapping into the night and making it sound like the door was splitting apart. But nobody moved, nobody awoke - and it was enough.

Easing through (but bumping himself against the door edge), he came out into the cool landing. He took a breath. The nearest bathroom was all the way down the narrow, twisted stairwell at the base of the house, outside Percy's room. He stepped quickly, keeping his footsteps close to the wall where the boards were less likely to warp and creak. Unfortunately, two of them did sound off, but the Burrow was so tall and creaky that he hoped the noises would blend in.

He made it to the bathroom. Immediately he closed and locked the door. He then pulled down his pants and resumed stroking himself, body urging, and looked for a lightswitch. But there was no lightswitch. This was a wizard house. The only light came from the small, lumpy-glassed window above the bath, but it did little more than help him make out the shapes of things. There was an oil lamp on the counter, but didn't have his wand to light it, and wasn't allowed to use magic anyway. He felt himself, the desire building, pleasure sluggish and needing to flow. The sweaty padding of his hands was hardly cutting it. There were a bunch of jars around the sink and tub, he saw. One of them had to work…

Single handedly, he scooped each one up and held it to the distorted moonlight, continuing to polish his wand with the other. _Auntie Addy's Acne-Away, _he read_. Madame Manageable's Hair Profoundable. Froggy Slime for the Dry Hind. Diagon Alley Dugout's Skin Foundation and Walltrim Grout._

A surge cascaded over his loins. Harry gasped, doubling over as pleasure mounted. He anchored himself to the counter with one hand and pumped away with the other - harder, faster, jerking himself without regard to how rough he was being. This was working. He could do it here. He was nearly there. And things could be cleaned afterward, and no one would know. His forehead prickled - was he sweating?

The door handle jiggled. He froze. Someone was out in the hallway. Pulse pounding, he grabbed the jar of frog slime - it had to be a clever brand name, didn't it? - but found it nearly empty. Grimacing, he let himself hang for a moment and ran a finger around the walls of the cylinder (accidentally bumping his tender flesh against the frigid, unforgiving counter tile) and dug up a good-sized glob of goo. Then he took up his meat - and after the briefest hesitation - committed, smearing himself with the cold slime.

Bliss.

He twisted and rubbed, applying a thorough coating. He gasped, but kept his throat open wide to keep it inaudible. His hand slid gracefully up and down, the motion sending waves of enjoyment across his groin.

A soft knock sounded on the door, followed by a muffled apology - somebody was definitely there, he hadn't imagined it. And they'd run out of patience.

Clumsily, Harry tugged up his pajamas. He crammed the lid back on the jar and set it on the countertop with a _clink_. He waddled to the door, trying to keep from rubbing the slime on the inside of his pants, wanting to save as much of it as he could. Then he took a breath, palm sweaty, and untwisted the handle.

"Sorry," mumbled Hermione.

She was still half-asleep.

"It's fine," Harry managed. "All yours."

They squeezed past each other. He became vividly aware of Hermione's body. He smelled the shampoo of her hair and felt her heat. He noticed the proximity of her hips and buttocks. Some brutish part of him wanted to grab her at the arm, to pull her in and feel the realness of her body beneath her soft layer of pajamas.

The door shut. Harry stared into the darkness. Just how much of a fool was he being, he wondered? How much time had passed? How much noise had he made? But most importantly - how, and where, was he supposed to deal with himself?

Burning up, he remembered the chaos of snoring up in Ron's room and thought it would be enough to grant him privacy. He crept up the haphazard, creaking house, one hand locked on his meat and guarding it from the slime-hungry pajama fabric. He re-entered the room. The door groaned shut, but it was a lot more quiet than it'd been before. He then waddled between the sleeping forms of Fred and George and made it to his mattress, where he sank down. Victory.

Ron had shifted in his sleep and was now laying on his back instead of his side, but that was no matter. The snores were as present as ever. A roar of approval surged in Harry's chest, and he looked down at himself, laying back on the bedspread and arching his back. Once more he eased off his pajamas to let his glistening length stand free in the air. It was glorious.

Open-mouthed and breathing, Harry gripped it and began to pump. His hand slid up, his hand slid down. It was perfect. At this point, who cared if the slime belonged to a frog? Witches and wizards used it all the time, so it had to be okay, it had to. He tightened his grip. Pleasure grew, built, throbbed. It was amazing. He held his breath, then took air in deeply and quietly let it out over the span of several seconds, continuing to tug himself. Ecstasy grew. He was getting close, and he tried not to think about where he was or betraying their hospitality. A thought popped in his head - he needed a tissue, or handkerchief or something. Why hadn't he thought to grab any toilet paper? His stroking slowed. What if he did it on the inside of his pajamas? He could wash them later. He resumed pumping - yes, that'd work.

Someone mumbled. Harry's blood went cold.

"Oi, Harry -" said Ron, propping himself up on an elbow. He rubbed sleep out of his eyes. "What you doing, mate?"


	3. To Ride Another's Broom

You already know what happens.

Pajama bottoms left in bed, Ron positioned himself over Harry's narrow body. He was naked from the waist down, his knees on either side of Harry's hips, his calves and feet tracing the curves of Harry's cool, soft buttocks. Ron's freckled cheeks glowed red. Was he actually going for this? Did he actually want this? Fred and George were sleeping right behind them. He'd never hear the end of it if they woke up and saw what he was doing. Yet - upon seeing Harry pulling away at himself, and what he was wielding, Ron couldn't deny the overpowering, alien desire in his body.

Harry's emerald eyes were watching him, half-lidded beneath his glasses and mess of hair. Hus cheeks also looked flushed. He looked a little sweaty, even. One of his hands was still gripped around his cock, which was directly below Ron's bum. They watched each other, full of desire, but both hesitant about making the move. Ron's mind raced, feeling himself growing down there. The longer he waited, the more of an urge filled his rump and pumped into his length.

Of course it was wrong, he thought, heart beating. That's what everyone would say - that they shouldn't be doing this. Harry was his friend. Harry was his best mate. And Ron wasn't into getting plowed - at least, he'd never thought as much. Truth be told, he'd never thought about it at all. But this... he wanted. It was undeniable. And somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a voice saying, who better? Who better to do it with, than your best mate? Who better to let them bury their bone in you, than the Boy Who Lived? Anyone would kill for the opportunity. It was a no-brainer!

And he did want it. He was nearly at full mast now. Ron looked away from Harry's eyes, down his torso, at the bare midriff and the tight muscles shown there on Harry's skinny build. Ron grew larger. His eyes moved down to Harry's groin, at the small hairs laying there, then finally at the shining, moonlit, pulsing broom handle gripped in his hand. Ron's arse was empty, and he needed it filled.

Relaxing his back, he let his stomach fall forward. The tip of his penis made contact with Harry's waistline. Ron found it warm. He adjusted his knees and reached back, gripping each of his firm, pale, freckled cheeks in his hands, and lowered further, spreading them. Harry's cock made contact with his taint. They met eyes, Ron's bangs hanging down in his vision. Harry Potter, he thought. Star quidditch player, defeater of You-Know-Who, his best mate. He swelled, his breaths coming in short and he lowered even more, relaxing, the point of contact wandering up… and finding his bunghole.

He was still too tight. He knew he was. He let out a lungful of air, letting the tension in his leg muscles ease off. He relaxed the muscles of his buttocks. He spread his cheeks. And slowly, eased himself onto Harry.

First the tip slipped inside, engulfed in Ron's flesh. Ron felt it in him. Then it was halfway, the shimmering, veined underside slipping inside little by little. It was enormously large. Filling him. Ron wiggled his hips, easing himself lower and trying not to grunt. He still held his cheeks wide. It hurt, a little. It felt like he was constipated, like he had an enormous turd, only it was moving in the opposite direction, and slipping up unstoppably.

Harry's hands moved up to Ron's hips. Ron let go of his cheeks and pulled his shirt up under an armpit, trapping it there so Harry could run his hands up his backside. They were officially doing this, he thought. He and Harry. He eased himself all the way down, until he was sitting atop Harry's lap, and now the entirety of Harry's length was throbbing inside him.

Then he moved. He planted one hand by Harry's head, sliding it under the pillow so his palm was on the cool mattress. He leaned over Harry, Harry's cock sliding back, and _that_... that felt good. It was like taking a shite, only in the right direction, and a hundred times better. Then he sank back again, Harry filling him once more. The deeper it went, the better it was. Ron's breath caught.

Deciding to lose the shirt, he pulled it up, letting Harry soak inside him, and nimbly tugged it from his head and arms and tossed it at the edge of the bed. The moonlight revealed his pale, freckled back and shoulders. He did a quick check for Fred and George - they were still snoring - so he resumed. He put his other hand beneath Harry's pillow, and sank back again. Harry's thickness slid into him. Ron kept his mouth shut, trying to be quiet, but was sure he was making more noise than he knew. Harry gripped one of his arse-cheeks, and Ron looked back at it, seeing Harry's fingers making depressions in his flesh.

Ron went forward again, pleasure pounding up his body, burning his face. His own cock rubbed up Harry's torso, bunching up his pajama top. He sank back, and Harry, unable to contain himself, lifted and shoved himself in deep. Ron took a sharp intake of breath.

"Harry," he said.

He started rocking faster, gyrating his hips - Harry obviously wanted more. Ron's eyes went to his lips. Should they kiss? They were friends, but he sort of wanted to. He acted on the impulse. Digging his fingers under Harry's shirt, he pulled it up. Harry went along, putting his hands up. Ron tossed it aside, and when Harry's face came out - black, messy hair relaxing over his face - their lips met. Ron kissed his top lip. Harry kissed him back. But then, by mutual agreement, they stopped, deciding it wasn't doing it, and settled back into motion.

He couldn't believe they were actually doing this. He was _riding_ Harry Potter. His best mate was buried inside him, fucking him to new heights. It was incredible.

"Ron," Harry said, and he realized he'd grunted. But the next moment Harry gave a short gasp, turning his head to the side and covering his mouth with the back of his fingers, and Ron smirked, sinking back over him. He reached for his own meat, looking at Harry's bare body, and began to rub himself, pressing his tip against Harry's warm stomach.

Outside the door, Hermione stopped. She was sure she'd heard some noises coming from the boy's room.


	4. A Voyeur, Denied

Another moment and it was clear: Harry and Ron were screwing. Every last bit of sleep drained from her body. She stared up at their landing, wide-eyed and breath caught in her chest. Beneath the soft snoring of the twins was the unmistakable sound of flesh slapping flesh, of pleasure grunts and short gasps. She'd heard it enough after her parents fights to know that sound. And now it was happening here.

How could they be doing this? How? She raked her hair out of her face and stared down at the floorboards. What would Mrs. Weasley think? What would anyone think? And they were going at it, right there, with Fred and George in the room? Perhaps she was mishearing things - that's what she hoped - but no, after another pause, the sounds were made all the more clear.

She returned to Ginny's room in a daze. Her heart was plummeting in her chest. Of course they were doing it. Of course there were signs she'd missed. Of course there was yet another thing she'd missed out on. She was still the odd one out, after all her effort. And she was really hoping that would all be left behind, in the Muggle world…

Clambering into bed, she pulled her legs in close as tears built in her eyes. Why was this happening? She buried herself in her arms. She cried into her knees. It wasn't fair. She'd studied so hard to blend in with everyone. But still she was just another outsider, a repulsive Muggle-born, some stupid mudblood bitch just like people always said. And just when she was starting to fancy Ron.

Cold soaked into her pajama fabric, making wet spots on her arms and legs. She sniffed and scooted back against the wall, face screwed up. It just wasn't bloody fair. She let out a sob, then steadied her breathing, smearing tears on her hands.

It hurt all the more because she'd let her imagination run away from her, just like always… she'd imagined Ron talking her into trying broomsticks, and them practicing together. She'd imagined him confiding in her like he did with Harry - talking and sharing himself, earnestly and intently. And they'd fought so much last year. Now everything was spiralling out of control again.

She thought of them in their room, enjoying each other. Kissing passionately, nuzzling at each other's ears, making small jokes under their breaths with quiet laughter. Their hands, feeling their chests, their hips, wandering lower and pleasuring each other. Of course that's what was happening. It was how it was always going to be, nevermind her silly fantasies.

The urge in her legs was growing strong, and she slipped her fingers in to take care of it. She wiped her tears with one hand, and felt herself with the other, tracing the divide between the lips in her groin. She was already wet.

As her fingers moved sparks danced across her skin, and she sobbed again, squeezing her eyes shut and turning her head away. It was so sad. So miserable. But it was right. She knew it was. This was the real world, and everyone was just going on without her.

She rubbed, dipping her fingers between the folds of her skin. She returned her thoughts to Harry and Ron. She pictured them with their bodies against each other, their penises sticking toward their bellies and rubbing along their sides. They mouthed at each other's tongues, silently. It was romantic, in a way - having to hide their love from everyone. A love she'd never get to experience.

With her thumb, she found her nub and pressed, building herself further. Tears leaked from her eyes, down her cheeks, and she smushed them away. Sparks danced up her body. She rubbed her thumb up and down, left and right. She reached and dug with her other fingers. She'd always be alone.

Sensation arced up her body, and she gasped. Maybe Ron and Harry were in a different position. She changed the picture in her head. Maybe Harry was on his hands and knees, Ron behind him. Ron would run his hands up Harry's back, through his hair. He'd kiss his shoulder, his neck, and Harry would look back and their mouths would meet.

It ought to be her, she thought, not Harry. She ought to be the one with Ron. But of course that would never happen. A tear welled up and trickled down her cheek, but she ignored it, running her hand up her shirt as the drops fell. She squeezed her breasts. First one, then the other, pinching her nipples like Ron would. She gasped, and sobbed, fingers rubbing and stroking down in her legs. She clenched them tight, squeezing her hand, as more pleasure shot up her body. Her stomach muscles started to twitch. She sucked in breath and let it out in a rackety stutter, wishing for Ron's arms around her.

A mumble came from Ginny's bed. Hermione heard it and tried to freeze, but she couldn't shut herself down so quickly. Instead she slowed, holding her breath, restraining her fingers. Ginny shifted in her sheets.

Of course she'd been making too much noise. Stupid girl, she told herself. Idiot. Still twitching, she pulled her hands out from her warm spots and clasped them together in her lap, squeezing them tight with her legs as her stomach clenched. She sniffed, and breathed, tears rolling down her cheeks, while her body jerked and insides burned for more. What was wrong with her?

Another mumble. Ginny could hear her crying. Her thoughts raced - she had to go somewhere... the bathroom. She'd just gotten back, but Ginny didn't know that.

Moving quickly, she slipped out of bed and left the room. She heard Ginny call after her, voice quiet with sleep, but didn't answer. Hopefully going down the stairs would tell her enough. Hopefully it'd put Ginny's mind at ease, and she wouldn't have to explain herself.

She took the steps, wondering what hour it was. Really, she was being quite the idiot, and ought to just kip down for the night, ignoring everything else. The Quidditch World Cup was tomorrow - not that that was a big deal to her, but it was big for Ron and Harry, and they were her best friends - she stopped on a landing, sorrow pulling her down again. She rested against a wall. It wasn't fair. She bent her head, eyes watering once more.

A thought came to her - who knew? Maybe she'd just been imagining things. Maybe Harry and Ron weren't actually making love. Maybe she'd heard one thing, and thought it was something else.

What sweet lies. She would always be alone. She was never going to be with Ron. He didn't want her. And neither did Harry. They wanted each other. In a way that, for her, no one ever would.

She put a hand back in her pajamas and pressed, sliding her fingers along herself. She bit her lip, stairwell blurry through the film on her eyes, body craving for the embrace that would never come. Sadness was a hole in her heart, catching pleasure and need in its eddies and whirling them around like stardust outside a black hole. It lit her up. She groped. Her body surged. She squeezed a breast and pressed it upward, nipple caught at the crux of her fingers. Cold dripped on her arm. She moved faster in her crotch, thrusting her hand between her sweaty, leaking thighs, the pajama waistline scratchy on her wrist. She gasped, and sobbed, heaving breath as sparks lanced up her.

Suddenly, she stumbled. Getting ahold of herself she made down the next flight of steps for the bathroom, her footing uncoordinated. Stupid girl.

She got to the door and found a light showing at the bottom. Occupied. She sagged against a wall again, legs still thrumming. Right beside her was Percy's room, she saw, eyes dragging her head that direction. The door was wide open, illuminated by a lamp on his desk. He was still awake, then. Working on his dumb cauldron report, likely. Which meant (she thought, as she dried the tears off her face with her sleeve), she was forced to wait for him.


	5. Taking a Page from Your Book

Percy's room was small, like every room in the Burrow, but it was neatly organized, aside from the mess of papers on his desk and a small stack of textbooks in one corner. It smelled faintly of cologne. He had a large area-carpet covering most of the floor, a decent-sized bed with smooth, blue, tucked-in sheets (aside from the one corner he got in and out of), with a nice wooden bed frame, and a closet hung with neatly pressed robes. She didn't know how long it'd taken him to collect these things. There was an owl cage there too, on a stand by the window, but its occupant - Hermes - seemed to be out for the night.

It all felt familiar to her. It was like her room at home. Yet upon looking over his things, Hermione couldn't help but feel contempt for it. It was all so intentional. It was like he was trying so hard to show how different he was from the rest of the family, that it came off as farcical and pathetic. Honestly. What was he trying to prove? Did he think Mr. and Mrs. Weasley doubted of him? Was he forcing himself through his studies, just to prove he could do it?

She went over to the desk. The sense of trespass grew. Percy would be enraged to find her here. But she'd known the Weasley family for years… if he got mad at her, it was his own damn fault. He shouldn't have kept his door open. And he if he grabbed her, and became furious… desire rekindled in her core. Maybe that'd be a good thing.

Still waiting, she went to explore the desk. Aside from papers, it held a standard size, pewter cauldron, a wiry clamp-looking instrument (which had to have been a thickness gauge), quills and an inkwell, several technical books, and… an old copy of a thank-you note, addressed to the Norwegian Department of Magical Agriculture.

She snorted. Idiot Percy. He must've brought it out after the news earlier and had been stewing in embarrassment ever since. Several of the lines were savagely crossed out in splattered ink. Absolute bellend.

"Hermione?"

She whirled around, tucking her arms into her armpits to show she hadn't touched anything. Percy stood in the doorway, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. He actually had sort of a pretty-boy face, she thought, in this lighting - narrow, angular, but adorned with those horn-rimmed glasses he favored instead of a personality.

"What are you doing?" he said. "You should be in bed."

"I'll be wherever I like, thanks."

It came out snappier than she'd intended, but she stuck with it.

"Well not in my room, you won't."

He came in. Her heart beat in her chest.

"If you didn't want me in," she said, as he diverted toward his desk, "you ought to have closed your door. Besides, you were taking an age in the bathroom. What else was I to do?"

He rolled his eyes and ignored her, looking at his cauldron report.

"What took you so long in there, anyway?" she went on, voice shaky. She was so tired of being brushed off. "Having a wank, were you?"

He gaped at her.

"Hermione! That's completely inappropriate."

"Yeah?" she said, sniffing. "Well what were you doing, then?"

Idiot question, she thought.

"Hold on," said Percy, getting a look at her face. Avoiding his gaze she looked down, inadvertently looking at the lump in his briefs.

"Have you been crying?"

"That's really none of your business," she said, cheeks turning warm. "You don't just ask a girl if she's been crying. Talk about inappropriate."

He came nearer, and her heart beat faster.

"You okay?"

"As if you care."

"What's that mean?" he said, irritation creeping in.

"Well Percy," she said, forcing herself to look at him, "when someone cares about others, they tend to be interested in them, don't they? They spend time together, and talk, instead of being cooped up in their room."

"What are you -?" he closed his eyes, touching his temple. "I don't need you to tell me what 'caring' means, Hermione, I know that. What I want to know is what you're talking about. Are you wanting me to care about you, or something?"

"No," she laughed. "No, not me. I couldn't give a shite if you cared about me. Which is good, because you don't. You don't care about anyone. Not even your family."

"That's too far," he said.

"I don't know if it is," she said, bullying on, despite not knowing where the words were coming from. But some part of her urged her on, wanting to see what would happen. "I think it's about time you heard it. Look at you, shutting everyone away. Leaving dinners whenever you please, to go off and stick your nose in your books. It's quite rude. Very prattish, honestly."

He opened his mouth, but instead of saying anything he suddenly went and shut his door. Fear climbed, but she drowned it in contempt and desire.

"Now listen to me, Hermione," he said, putting his face an inch from hers. His breath smelled like tea, and the ache rose in her belly. "You don't know a thing about me."

"Oh, don't I?" she said, waving an arm at his room. She wanted him to grab her. "Tell me, what more is there to know? You talk for hours about stupid, shitey cauldrons, but when it comes to normal conversation you just fall short."

"Keep your voice down."

"It's no wonder everyone thinks you're such an arse," she went on. "No wonder Fred and George sent you dung in the mail. You ever think about that? Well let me tell you, there's a reason for it. You're a prat. With a big head. It's so swollen you don't even realize you've got nothing to show for yourself. You're the least interesting person I've ever met."

He grabbed her elbow and pulled her in - "You don't talk to me like that," he said. Her need surged.

"Don't touch me," she said, trying to jerk her arm free.

"And keep your voice down," he growled, fingers digging in. She could feel hot anger radiating from his face. "People are sleeping."

She stared at him, heart hammering. The non-crazed part of her recognized he was probably a foot taller than her, and who knew how much stronger. But the other part of her got excited at that all the more.

"And what if I don't want to?"

A muscle twitched in his jaw.

"What would you do?" she said.

"Now you listen," he breathed. "You don't know a thing about me."

"Yeah?"

"What I do, I do for my future. Nobody else thinks about that."

"No?"

"Everyone loves Fred and George, but they're the ones with nothing to show. No ambition. They don't think about things! They want their joke shop, but where are they going to get money? Mum? Dad? Unless they somehow get landed a fortune, it's a complete waste of time. It's a delusion."

"I don't know about that, they're pretty clever. More clever than you."

"I report to Mr. Crouch himself, I'll have you know."

"Yeah?" she said. "Are you his tea boy?"

"Shut up, Hermione," he said, grabbing her at the shoulders. His breath was warm. "You're really pissing me off."

"Am I?" she said, fear and desire rampaging inside her. "What are you going to do? You can't run away to your room! I'm already here."

He stared at her.

"Then I'll clear you out," he said, and pulled her toward the door.

"No!" she said, desperation surging. She planted her feet and tried to pull herself free, but he was too strong. This absolute moron. She lost footing and took a few steps forward. "Let me go," she said, wrenching at his grip. "You bastard. You're hurting me." She kicked at his leg, but the blow glanced off and she fell into his arms.

"You need to be quiet," he said, seizing her.

His hold was like iron bars. She struggled, twisting in his grip, turning away from his red face. The ache roared full-force as her back came into contact with his belly. It overpowered her contempt and sense of fear. She didn't care what he was going to do - she shoved her butt at his groin, pressing against him as she feigned struggle, rubbing at the lump in his undergarments.

"Stop it!"

"No. Make me."

Suddenly, she was shoved forward across the room, stumbling atop bed. He clambered atop her, his weight flattening her into the mattress. Fucking. Finally.

"I won't have you speaking to me like that," he said, grabbing her hair and pulling her head to the side. His breaths were hard, puffing at her neck, and his elbow pressed into her back, shortening her breaths. "I'm done with your cheek."

He was angry. Just angry. How thick could you be?

"I think I know what your problem is," she said, face pressed into the bedspread fabric. She moved her legs up, arching her back and pushing her butt at his groin. "You haven't had a lay in your life. You're too much of a bloody coward. No wonder you've got to wank in the dead of the night, nobody wants you."

He didn't move. She strained her neck, looking back at him, and saw him looking at her body. It was hard to tell, but she thought she could feel him thickening.

"I bet you've never even made a move," she breathed, dropping her stomach and pressing herself. Her face was hot in the bedspread. "You limp-dick son of a bitch."

Her mother's words, from her mouth.

"I'll show you," said Percy.

Still tearing her hair to the side, he tugged down her drawers in one go. Her arse became exposed to the cold air of the room.

"Finally gotten the hint, have you?" she huffed.

"Shut up," he said, digging at his waistline.

She thought he was getting himself out, but instead saw his wand in his hand. Uncertainty spiked.

"What are you doing?"

By way of response, he cast quieting charms around the room. Maybe he wasn't such a dunce after all. She watched him throw off his shirt, and took in what she could of his stomach and torso. Then, single-handedly, he got himself out and cast the Slipping Jinx.

"Someone's clever," she said.

"Shut it."

He was poking at her arse. She bristled.

"Hey!" she said, swinging to the side. "No! Not there."

Percy loomed over her, pressing her into the mattress.

"That's where it's going," he growled, tea-breath in her ear. Her stomach fluttered. Well, if he said it like that…

Again, he made contact, this time slipping inside. All the way. She yelped at how sudden it was. And before she knew it he was moving, thrusting at his own pace, using her. His legs pounded at her backside. Her hair let go.

"Fuck," she said, getting to her hands.

Percy's cock plunged inside her, rocking the whole bed.

"How's this for limp-dicked?" he growled.

She rolled her eyes, but didn't respond, instead extricating her own shirt off her body. Her breasts hung in the air, and she slid a hand past them, grabbing at herself as Percy filled her bunghole. She tried not to think about the spikes of pain, or needing to shit, only his thickness squirming inside her. She started to relax.

"Don't know why you're being such a bitch," he said.

"Maybe because I feel like it," she said, breathy.

It wasn't perfect, but her ache was starting to work out, and with her rubbing herself the pleasure was building. Then Percy slowed.

"Well don't take it out on me," he said.

"I'll take it out however I feel like it. Keep going."

"I don't want to hear it."

"Too bad."

He stopped. He'd gotten his wand.

"You're going to Silencio me?" she hissed, indignant.

"Something like that."

"No," she said. "Absolutely not. I'll leave."

"Then go."

"Fuck you."

"You either don't talk, Hermione, or don't be here."

He thrusted again, harder, filling her, slamming against her. She gasped, but kept quiet.

He cast the jinx. Some part of her recognized it as the Floating Hand Charm - a summoning of magical, ghostly hands that pulled your ears and flicked your nose. What was he playing at?

One appeared in front of her, transparent and colorful with Percy's magic. Before she knew it, it clamped over her mouth.

"Mmph!" she said, face twisting in rage - he'd actually done it!

Its fingers stuck in her mouth.

"Ammk!" - What?

She jerked her head, trying to throw it off, but it kept with her. The fingers shoved in further, pressing at her tongue, going for the back of her throat. She gagged.

But actually… she thought, as the fingers lodged into place... this might do it for her. Hesitant, she went back to rubbing herself.

Percy nailed her. The fingers pressed at the back of her tongue. Her mouth filled with saliva, dripping down her lips, her chin. Percy held her at the hips, his hands securing her. Pleasure rushed. It billowed like wildfire, catching at his points of contact and flaring white-hot. She collapsed forward on the bed, dropping her face in the wet spots and sucking. The fingers went deep, and she gagged. Her body surged. Her eyes fluttered.

Percy's hands went up her. He felt up her back, her sides, her ribs, found her breasts and squeezed. Fire burned through her body. She moaned sloppily, breathing through her nose, her hand jerking away at her crotch as Percy stretched her.

"Yeah, you like that?" he said.

"Fugg you," she sputtered.

Percy's magic hand slid out from her and slid down her stomach, leaving a trail of cold saliva. It squeezed into her legs, pushing her own hand aside, and she let it, breathing. It went to work, fingers probing into her.

"Hu-uhh," she said, planting her hands on the mattress again and getting up.

"I thought I told you," said Percy, fingers slipping into her hair, "to mind how you speak to me."

"I'll talk as I please," she breathed.

He wrenched her head back.

"No, you won't," he said.

Fuck yes.

"I can say whatever I want," she said, as he thrusted.

"Not in my room."

"I'm good enough to do it."

"No, you're not."

"I am."

"Shut up!"

"I'm the best in my year."

There was a pause.

"You're awful," he said, taking the hint. "Never seen someone struggle so much."

"The professors love me," she said.

"They're disgusted by you," he said, getting back into rhythm.

"I'm a great witch."

"You're a filthy Muggle."

"I deserve to be here."

"You're kidding yourself."

"I'm magical."

"You're completely delusional."

"People love me and care about me. They want me around."

"Everyone's embarrassed at you. You're disgusting."

The magic fingers probed into her, and she gaped, heaving breath. Drool went down her chin, but she didn't wipe it away. Percy penetrated her, filling her, and told her she was a waste of space. That everybody thought she was a fool. That she'd never measured up to a real witch.

Her arms shook, and she let herself faceplant. She couldn't pick herself up if she wanted to - her core was clenching too much as an orgasm rocked her body. Percy kept telling her awful things, and she grabbed a breast, squeezing. She bit her lip and sucked on it. Fuck, she thought.

Suddenly, the door opened, and a wash of cool air entered the room. Ginny was there.


	6. Descent

"What are you doing?" Ginny said, face aghast.

In an instant Percy pulled himself from Hermione. The hand vanished, and she was left empty, and twitching, and flooded with embarrassment. Why did Ginny have to barge in right now?

"I can't believe this," Ginny said, coming into the room. She was beside herself, and looked all the more pure-hearted in her pink nightgown. "Why are you saying such awful things to each other?"

Silence filled the room.

"How did you hear?" said Percy. His tone was subdued, he sounded just as awful as Hermione felt.

"I was outside the door."

To preserve privacy (and not wake up the rest of the house), Ginny closed the door again and stayed there, hand on the knob. Percy collapsed back against the headboard, and Hermione tugged up her pajama bottoms and went against the cold wall at the foot of the bed. She covered her breasts with her top, and Percy muttered a spell to clean himself.

"I'd heard Hermione crying," Ginny explained, facing them again and coming onto the carpet. She looked on the verge of tears. "I waited for her to come back, but she never did. I wanted to check on her. I thought she went to the bathroom, and I came to look for her, and saw your light on. Then I heard you talking -"

"Lovely spellwork," said Hermione.

"It's for quieting, not silencing -"

"And I heard what terrible things you were saying to each other!" said Ginny. "I thought we all got on well. I thought you two, being the brightest of everyone, might be able to talk, and enjoy each other's company…"

Part of Hermione wanted to scoff, even if Ginny's perspective was rational. She might've liked her books, but they had nothing else in common.

"And then I come in here, and… and you're just being so foul to each other, and -"

"Ginny," said Percy, mournful, "I'm so sorry. So terribly sorry you had to hear all that."

Hermione glanced at him.

"I'm such an awful big brother," he said.

"No, you're not!" said Ginny, coming to the bedside.

"I am," said Percy, looking down at himself. "Hermione is right. I've been neglecting you, and everyone. I'm always hiding myself away, wishing I was somewhere else, when you're really the best family a person could ask for. I don't deserve you."

"No," said Ginny, climbing onto the bed. "That's not true. Look at me."

She took Percy's face in her hands. Was Percy about to cry?

"You work so hard," said Ginny. "You do. Everyone understands that. You've been putting so much time in at the ministry, and you've done amazing things for yourself."

Hermione felt awkward. It was like she was intruding on a tender family moment.

"And everybody's so proud of you," Ginny said.

"Are they?" said Percy, looking at her.

"Of course they are."

Ginny moved closer to Percy. She put a leg on the other side of his lap.

"They are."

Hermione's cheeks glowed red, and her heart beat in her chest. There was quiet for a moment as Ginny blocked Percy's face from view.

"And I'm proud of you too," said Ginny softly.

Hermione heard a kiss.

"Ginny -" said Percy.

"Shh," said Ginny, and their heads met again. Another kiss. "I want to make you feel better," she whispered.

Hermione gaped. Disbelief dumped through her, washing out everything else. What. was. happening. Percy's hands appeared on Ginny's thighs, and Ginny kissed him again. Hermione watched her reach down, into Percy's briefs, and guide out her brother's cock.

There was no way, Hermione thought. This couldn't be real. But as Ginny positioned his tip at her pussy, and kissed him deeper, she felt something else grow… her urge. She stared at them, face hot. Ginny sunk down, her lips spreading as Percy slid inside.

Hermione's let her top fall and, disbelief still coursing through her, slid her hand to her crotch. This was awfully, terribly wrong. But it was riling her up like nothing had before. She pressed at herself, as Ginny moved a strand of scarlet hair behind her ear. Hermione brought her hand to her mouth and rested it on her teeth, pressing her tongue against her skin. A moment ago, it'd been her with Percy. It'd been Percy's hands on her, his magic fingers in her mouth. But now she'd been discarded. For his own little sister. Ginny was more desirable to him than she was.

Hermione rubbed deeper, pressing at her nub with her thumb, probing inside herself with her pointer and middle fingers. She brought her hand out of her mouth and squeezed her tit, the saliva cool on her skin, and drew quick, shallow breaths. Ginny's hips rolled, Percy sliding in and out of her.

Percy's hands felt up Ginny's nightgown, and Hermione watched. She remembered how they felt on her. Ginny's backside was revealed, as well as the curves of her butt. Hermione took it in, grabbing at herself. Her heart stung with abandonment. Loss. And her pleasure swelled as her eyes watered. She drunk Ginny in, the softness of her bottom, the curve of spine and long muscles up either side, the pale tone of her flesh, only slightly lighter than her brother's. She was infinitely more desirable than her. Hermione arched her back, pressing at her hand as she rubbed away. Some part of her wanted Percy's attention.

Ginny mumbled something.

"I love you too," said Percy.

Hermione froze, mood falling, even as her body pounded. It was much too sweet. She watched Ginny's back for another moment, listening to the gentle moans of brother and sister, as Percy sunk himself into her.

They adjusted their position. Hermione nimbly gathered her top and left the bed, giving them room to be prone. She went to the door and paused to look back, a slight feeling of sickness rising inside her. But stronger was the arousal at her unwantedness, and however disturbing and saccharine the scene was, it only fuelled her further. She left just as Percy slid horizontal, Ginny's hands on his chest, Percy starting to lift off her nightgown as she swayed back and forth on top of him.

Hermione went into the dark stairwell. Once again she didn't know what to do with herself. Crotch urging her, she dug her hand into her pants and tried to satiate it. She could go upstairs and be alone in Ginny's room, she thought - but Harry and Ron were up there, and it made her feel lonesome. She withdrew her hand, taking a breath, and went down the stairs instead. She put her pajama top back on, groin still screaming at her, body still wishing for an embrace. She could camp out in the living room, she decided, and work herself out. Or sit there until she calmed down. The Weasleys had nothing in the way of a TV, but there was bound to be something she could read.

She slowed. Something to read. That was all she ever did. It had to be some form of escapism. She'd read about that once. And meanwhile, her life was passing her by, her friends having experiences without her. She'd told herself it was for her studying, that she had to catch up if she'd wanted to pass off as a witch, but… was it true? Was that just her, making excuses, so she could keep running in the same tracks she'd been in, over and over?

And Percy's words… they'd hurt, a little. They'd hit her deep. Was that how she felt about herself? Was there a truth there?

She made her way down to the next landing, self-pity weighing on her. She wondered about what she had to do, about what she needed to do to change, but everything was so disappointing and unfair at the moment it was hard to think. Her eyes watered, and she sniffed, body still buzzing. And why was she like this? It wasn't normal, as far as she could tell. She fetishized her own abandonment? Her own isolation?

A sound came up from the kitchen: a running faucet. Hermione froze, pricking her ears and wiping her face. The water turned off. Somebody was drinking. Another person was still up… had they heard anything? A glass set down, clinking, and suddenly Mr. Weasley's balding head appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He didn't know she was there! He was shirtless, except for a tie, and wearing a pair of gray underpants.

With alarm, she found she was right outside his and Mrs. Weasley's door. Her heart thumped in her ears - what could she do? If she ran away right now, Mr. Weasley would surely spot her and wonder what she was up to. But if she stayed… it was inevitable. She cleared her throat.

Mr. Weasley's head popped up - "Hermione!"

"Hi," she said, softly.

"Why are you up so late?"

"I…" she looked away, miserable at herself. She tried to find the right words. "I couldn't sleep."

"Are you feeling alright?"

"I don't know."

Mrs. Weasley's voice came through the doorway - "Arthur? Hermione? Is that you out there?"

Mr. Weasley gave Hermione a smile, but she couldn't make herself return it.

"You want to talk about it?" he whispered. "Come in and sit for a minute?"

She hesitated, then nodded.

Mr. Weasley opened the door and beckoned her to follow. It was another tiny room, this one crowded with a large, soft bed, a closet bursting with clothes, and a small dresser where Mrs. Weasley did her makeup.

"I've brought a visitor," said Mr. Weasley, shutting the door behind them.

"Hello, Hermione!" said Mrs. Weasley, covering herself with a blanket. "Goodness, your hair's a fright. Come and have a sit-down, dear."

Grateful, she did so, tucking her legs under her at the bed's edge. Her crotch was still simmering, but she did her best to ignore it. Mr. Weasley got in on his side, and he and Mrs. Weasley smiled at her, and Hermione couldn't help but feel that, finally, here might be two people that cared about her.


	7. A Guiding Hand

"So what's wrong, dear?" said Mrs. Weasley.

Hermione lifted a hand and dropped it again, at a loss. She wanted to tell them everything, but there was so much crowding her mind that she didn't know what to say. She thought of Ron and Harry upstairs, and then how rough Percy had been (and how much she liked it, and _why_ she liked it), and then what he and Ginny were doing right now. It was a lot. And then there were her own issues, her own things she'd come to notice about herself, and the sickening spree of self-stimulation she'd staged throughout the stairways. Which hadn't abated yet, and even at that very moment was humming her body with primal need. And the more she thought about it, the more it built, and the harder it was to keep her hands off herself.

"What's on your mind?" came Mr. Weasley's voice. "You can tell us. Anything."

"I just…" she said, trying to clear the fog from her mind. Why was she here? "I just feel so isolated."

"Isolated?"

"Yes!"

"And why is that?"

Slowly at first, the words came from her. She began by talked about her relationship with her parents, and how she'd never had many friends growing up. She talked about her love of reading, and the life-changing experience Hogwarts had been. And now she was at a point in her life where she was feeling better, and had friends, but - still - never felt it was real, or deserved, and believed people were only putting up with her. It was so frustrating. And no matter what she did or accomplished or the notes she got on her exams, it never felt good enough.

"I just want someone to genuinely care about me," she said, on the verge of tears. "And I want to trust it," she said, voice cracking. "But I don't know what's wrong with me. I never even realized something was wrong until tonight, I never thought about it. So now I can't sleep. And I'm so…" she shifted, relieving the pressure on her crotch (which only stimulated her further) "...and I'm so god-damned horny."

There was a pause as Mr. and Mrs. Weasley looked at one another.

"I'm sorry," Hermione sobbed. "I know I shouldn't have said that."

Mrs. Weasley cleared her throat.

"Dear, you've nothing to be ashamed about… all these things you're going through are perfectly normal. Anyone would feel the same way if they were in your position. What you need to focus on is _trusting_ the things that are true, and stopping yourself from believing the ones that aren't."

"That's absolutely right," said Mr. Weasley. "My - when I was your age - I went through exactly what you're saying. I never thought I was good enough at all!"

"He didn't," Mrs. Weasley affirmed.

"But as I grew, I knew that was foolish, just as you do now. So I paid attention to my interests, and met a lovely girl, followed shortly after by Molly here -"

Mrs. Weasley's jaw dropped and she gave him an elbow.

"- Only joking of course. But you're a brilliant girl, Hermione, and that's clear to anyone who sees you. Ron is always going on about what a brilliant witch you are!"

"Is he?" Hermione said - she knew it wasn't much coming from Ron, but it was still nice for Mr. Weasley to mention it.

"Of course. And you know the marks you get. Consistently above everyone in your class, aren't you?"

Hermione bit her lip - anyone could do that, if they had their nose in their books all the time. But she said nothing, because she knew Mr. Weasley was trying to make her feel better.

"My point is, you just need to practice," he said. "Pay attention to your thoughts, and learn to tell truth from doubt. Believe in yourself. And if you don't believe in yourself, why, believe in us," he said, gesturing between he and Mrs. Weasley, "because we believe in you!"

Hermione laughed, and looked down at herself. She was still pounding with all sorts of emotions. Mr. Weasley's words were nice, but his idea of her situation was far from reality. But she did know that he cared about her. And Mrs. Weasley, too. They might be some of the only people in the world who were nice enough to be true about it. And - her face grew hot - they might be just what she needed.

"I don't suppose," she said, fingering the quilt pattern - her heart pounded. Was she actually about to ask them this? "I don't suppose... you could help me?"

"Help you? Of course, with what?"

She got onto her hands, and as she shifted, her thighs rubbed together. Her breasts, fully hidden in her pajama top, squeezed between her arms. What a situation she was in, she thought. This was insanity.

"I just need… help… from someone, who I know cares about me," she said. "I think it's the only thing that will put me right. I've been so out of sorts this whole evening."

Mr. Weasley's eyes widened as he understood what she was asking. He looked at Mrs. Weasley, who was just as surprised as him.

"Please," Hermione found herself saying.

"Now…" said Mr. Weasley.

She could immediately hear the denial in his tone. But Mrs. Weasley touched his arm.

"Hold on, love…"

Hermione's heart lept. But suddenly, out of nowhere, there was a knock on the door, and everything came crashing down again.

"Now who could that be?" said Mrs. Weasley.

Stealing one of the blankets, Hermione watched her get out of bed and go to answer the door. She was entirely nude, although not quite as pudgy as she'd been expecting. Not wanting to stare, she looked away, and found Mr. Weasley studying her. Her eyes averted his gaze, but she looked back - his expression was kind, she saw. But contemplative.

"Oh, Harry, dear!" said Mrs. Weasley. "My, we're getting all kinds of visitors. Come in."

Harry, too, was entirely in the nude, Hermione saw in surprise. He looked even more scrawny out of his robes. He was shying away from eye contact, she noticed, and had himself covered with both hands. She couldn't help but feel disappointed that the situation was leading away from what she'd wanted.

"No, I'm sorry," said Harry, "I was just… the bathroom's out of towels."

"Everything alright, love?" said Mrs. Weasley.

Harry looked up and saw Hermione. His eyebrows jumped.

"You're here?" he said.

She nodded solemnly.

At Mrs. Weasley's beckoning, he entered the room, and the door closed. Hermione saw a fair bit of shiny gunk on his chest, and smelled the faint hint of poo. At once, Mrs. Weasley cleaned him up with her spellwork, vanishing the smell and lighting several of the scented candles around the room for insurance purposes.

"Now, you're looking a bit rough," Mrs. Weasley said. "Want to tell us what happened? And then we can get back to Hermione, I haven't forgotten about you, dear."

She nodded.

"I've just… had a bit of a night," Harry said, hesitantly.

Hermione watched him look around, as if wishing for somewhere to hide himself. He _was _looking rather sorry - and from what she could tell, at half-mast. So he might've been having some troubles himself.

"Ah, that's going around, isn't it?" said Mrs. Weasley. She let her blanket drop and embraced him from behind. He let her do it, and to Hermione it looked like a mother holding her child... only they were both naked.

"Have you been having some trouble?" she said meaningfully, talking into his ear.

Harry glanced at Hermione again. Was he embarrassed in front of her?

"Yeah," he said.

"Well not to worry. I think I've got just the ticket. Now, stand here…"

Defaulting to standard procedure, Mrs. Weasley took charge of the situation, and Hermione and everyone else were more than happy to fall in line. Harry was positioned at the foot of the bed, and Mrs. Weasley performed a charm Hermione had read about in her Transfiguration textbook.

"That's the Switching Spell," she said, unable to help herself.

"Right you are," said Mrs. Weasley. "Clever girl."

Hermione tried to feel proud of herself, but was distracted: Mrs. Weasley was now sporting a pair of genitals, which were dark enough next to the rest of her that they almost looked tan: taut bullocks, sparse, straight black hairs, and a half-raised penis, all nestled in between her belly and thighs.

"Go on, Harry, take at what you've got."

Alarmed, Harry uncovered himself. At first Hermione thought he had a faded spot from a day at the beach and one of those awful, tight-hugging swimming jockeys, but no, she realized - his parts had gone completely, and were now substituted by Mrs. Weasley's: a rather large-lipped, pale, roast-beef sandwich on a stadium roll but with sharp cheddar cheese twirls grated on as garnish.

"Not to worry," said Mrs. Weasley knowledgeably, "it's only temporary. However, let's touch things up a bit…"

With a bit more spellwork her new goods doubled in size and girth and lightened to match the rest of her complexion, with the small hairs curling and glowing as bright as embers. Harry's shrank, on the other hand, tightening up inside itself and darkening, while the hairs disappeared almost entirely - aside from a small, sparse patch at the top, which relaxed and lay flat. It was quite petite.

"What have you done?" Harry said, astounded.

"Not to worry, my dear," she answered, slipping her new limb between Harry's slender legs. It emerged beneath his new pussy, his lips parting as it slipped past, and he clutched it, eyes wide.

"You'll be taken care of, just as I said. Trust me. Now, everyone! Remove your outer-wear, and let's see if we can all squeeze on the bed together."

Uncertain at first, everyone eventually spurred into movement. Hermione climbed out of her pajamas and left them in one corner. She went to stand by Harry, who she was still feeling cold toward for stealing the spotlight.

"Now, dear, are you sure about this?" said Mr. Weasley.

"Of course I am," Mrs. Weasley said. "It's the proper thing to do! Now, Hermione, you and Harry get on the bed together, hands and knees…"

Begrudgingly, Hermione followed instructions and went around to Mr. Weasley's side of the bed, while Harry went on the other. Mr. Weasley was still looking quite unsure about things, she was unhappy to see, and seemed to have crammed himself as far into his little corner as he was able. Her chest fizzed with tired worry. What if he refused? What if she was left alone, by herself, on their side of the bed?

Then she was face-to-face with Harry. She blinked. There were a few more changes about him. His hips had widened, looking decidedly more feminine, with a gap at where they used to meet. His shoulders had fallen, sloping as a girl's would. His mess of hair was now lengthened past his ears, swooping at his jawline, which was less pronounced and more angular. His eyes, too, had become more almond. Did he have some Asian ancestry, she wondered? She'd never noticed before. Harry brushed some of his hair behind an ear. Was Mrs. Weasley's spell still in effect?

As per instructions, they made for the bed, Hermione studying him. He looked all the more girlish close-up: his thin, flat lips turned pouting and soft, and his nose small and cute. They stopped inches from each other, toes hanging off the edge with their rumps in the air.

"I suppose that'll have to do," said Mrs. Weasley, positioning herself and her swinging appendage at Harry's backside.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked, voice higher-pitched.

"I told you not to worry," Mrs. Weasley said, gently catching him by the hips. Her hands and arms looked quite a bit more sturdy and masculine, Hermione thought, as well as her stomach. "We'll start slow, with time for you to get comfortable."

"Okay…" he said, raspy.

Harry didn't take his eyes off Mrs. Weasley, keeping his face turned away from Hermione. She couldn't help but feel snubbed by this. His mess of hair almost entirely blocked his face from view, and Hermione felt her desire to participate decay into isolation once more. She looked down his form as Mrs. Weasley angled herself: his sloping back, slim waist, lovely, round buttocks at the ready for Mrs. Weasley's girth. Was he prettier than her, she wondered?

She watched Mrs. Weasley start to stroke him, and she saw Harry force himself to relax. Mr. Weasley still hadn't touched her. A moment passed, and Harry must have looked ready, for Mrs. Weasley angled and slowly began to ease herself into him. Harry sucked in a feminine breath.

Watching this, Hermione felt her arousal rebuilding, but her sorrow and disappointment was growing at twice the rate. She knew it was ready to fuel her, that it if she let it, it would take her into an mind-melting spiral of rejection gratification, but she didn't want that to happen.

Mrs. Weasley moved in further, filling his new, pretty-girl pussy. Girl-Harry made a noise of discomfort, a groan of uncertainty, and Hermione wanted her to shut up and take it. It wasn't that bad. She was getting taken care of, at least. Somebody paid attention to her.

Then, warm hands touched her backside. The contact was like a flame, chasing the shadows from her mind. Excitement swelled in her heart. She turned her head, biting her lip, to look up at Mr. Weasley.

"Are you ready, Hermione?" Mr. Weasley asked, speaking softly.

"Mm-hmm," she nodded.

Contact. Mr. Weasley was touching her. Her heart beat in her chest, her crotch surged with longing. She arched her back. And, bit by bit, he eased in.

* * *

Meanwhile, up in Percy's room, Ginny was holding on for dear life. Percy was buried deep in her vagina, thrusting as much as he could while prone on the mattress, his large, immaculate hands on her thighs.

Charlie had come in at one point, mistaking her for someone named Rosa in his sleep-addled state, and with no hesitation Ginny told him to come up on the bed so she could take care of him.

Now he was before her, feet on either side of Percy's head, as she engulfed his cock in her mouth. He had a hard, stocky body, with healed scars and burns from his dragon-work, and she clutched him by the hips as she swallowed his own dragonhead. She took it in as deep as she could. She tried to throat the tip without gagging, and a trail of saliva built on her lips and oozed down her chin. She looked up his chiseled body, eyes locked on his half-lidded gaze, as his strong, rough hands held her head. She still wasn't fully sure he was conscious, but she wanted him to recognize her.

Of course, with Charlie gone, Bill had come investigating, and she'd promptly gestured him to her hindquarters. He'd joined in without protest, splendidly. She was more than happy about this, as he had the nicest body of anyone there: toned muscle, long, dark-red hair, and a fang earring and string necklace. She greeted him with a full-mouthed kiss as he lubricated himself, their tongues meeting each other, as she pumped Charlie with her hand.

Now she was back on him, gagging and drooling, as Percy and Bill huffed breath and slid themselves into her. Their huge, manly bodies were nearly bashing her around. Bills hands held her at the sides, thumbs up in her sensitive armpits; other fingers on her ribs, chest, and nipples. It was incredible. The thought of her brother's cocks rubbing away in her body and nearly touching was enough to send her into jittering mess, but she held off, focussing on gorging Charlie and getting him where he needed to go. Her eyes watered as she looked up at him. She breathed heavily through her nose, buried in his bush, as Charlie's density coursed between her lips and slid across her tongue. She gagged and suppressed it. Anytime now he'd unload his hot, bitter gunk in her throat and she'd swallow. And then Percy would, inside her belly, and Bill into her arse. It would be bliss.

* * *

Mr. Weasley's legs bumped against Hermione in a steady rhythm, his penis filling her at a much slower rate than she would have liked. But it wouldn't have done any good in any case. She wasn't feeling in the mood. He'd mentioned to her, in concern, that she felt as stiff as a board, and she'd started rocking against him to ease his concerns. She bowed her stomach, rolling her hips, pushing and pulling at him, but only did it half-heartedly.

She was much too distracted by girl-Harry in front of her, who was now gasping and letting out soft moans as Mrs. Weasley thrusted into her. Girl-Harry's hands grabbed at the blanket, and she dipped her head, pressing her lips against her arm. Her hair shook with the impacts. It was wavy and beautiful, with a bit of mess that only enhanced her sexual appeal. It swooped at her cheeks and framed her closed eyes, and was an entirely different class from Hermione's mud-brown chaotic thornbush that hung off the side of her head. Girl-Harry's hands, too, were dainty, her fingers delicate and nails clean, unlike Hermione's, which were trimmed short and had calluses where she usually held her quills and pens.

It just wasn't any good, she thought. Not only was Girl-Harry a famous wizard who had defeated the Dark Lord three times by now, and was admired by everyone her age (as well as above and below), but now she'd stolen the night from her. Hermione had come to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley for solace and comfort, but now she was locked in an awkward, dispassionate tempo while Girl-Harry got her brains fucked out.

She was so lucky. And Hermione couldn't even swing herself into her forlorn, fetishized mind state, as Mrs. Weasley had never even wanted her to begin with. She was well and truly unwanted, unquestionably. Everybody's last choice.

But of course, she shouldn't be thinking about that. She had to ignore those thoughts. She was being stupid, and the smart thing to do would be to ignore it. So she should be focussing on Mr. Weasley, and that fact that he was inside her right now entirely for her own benefit, because he cared about her and wanted her to feel better. So she owed it to him to make the most of it.

Mimicking Girl-Harry, she dipped her head and closed her eyes. Mr. Weasley filled her and retreated, inserted and extracted again. Mr. Weasley. The father of the family, she thought. Hermione rocked on her wrists and knees. The mattress creaked below her; the wooden bed-frame squeaked; Mrs. Weasley's cooed words of encouragement washing over the room. She felt Girl-Harry's breath, smelled it, inhaled it, and tried to synchronize with her mood.

She started to feel it. She had Mr. Weasley's cock inside her, inches away from where his son's had been earlier. She dipped and pulled, then sank back again. This was nothing like Percy. There was no anger, no savage urges or actions. This was being done out of kindness. It was tender, and full of care and compassion. And it was for her.

She rolled herself, taking in breaths. Pleasure began to build. She relaxed, and as she did so, Mr. Weasley adjusted himself. He was reading her, she realized. She rocked a bit deeper, slower, and he matched her pace. His hands became warm and fluid, losing their awkwardness. He felt up her back, and she let herself breathe, her voice joining in with Girl-Harry's.

"That's it," said Mrs. Weasley.

Blearily, Hermione looked up and found Mrs. Weasley looking at her with affection. She looked back at Mr. Weasley's face, and found him with his eyes closed, mouth slightly agape and directed toward the ceiling as he pressed into her. It was endearing. And Girl-Harry… Hermione looked forward again, just in time to see her in the throes of pleasure, mouth open and letting out soft cries as she looked upward, eyes distant with one half-shut. Hermione caught sight of the scar on her forehead.

Several realizations came at once, as they sometimes did. This was Harry, she thought. Not "Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived", just… Harry, her friend. Who had slight psychological issues from years of neglect at the hands of his step-parents, but ones he was working through just as much as anyone was with theirs. Who she'd been through thick and thin with together. Who she'd stood by as they fought dark magic, and faced horrifying monsters. As they laughed, and studied together, and shared secrets and gossip. They'd even gone through time together.

And of course, all that stuff she'd been thinking about with him and Ron was completely untrue. She could see it now. All the pieces connected. They might have mashed their bits together, but hadn't Harry shown up looking sorry for himself? And covered in spunk? She could easily see Ron getting himself off, then promptly falling asleep and leaving Harry to the mess. It'd be just like him - not that Ron would have intended for any malice, but that was just who he was. And then Harry had come here…

They were very much in the same position, she realized. Hadn't they both grown up in the Muggle world? Weren't they both very new to all this, and experiencing things together for the first time? Hadn't he been trapped in a cupboard for twelve years? And that was even more shut off than she was. And didn't they understand one another, in a way that Ron just couldn't engage with? Didn't they connect? Harry might be, she thought, her best friend in the whole world, and here they were, doing this as a team.

As if on queue, he seemed to register her looking at him. Hair shaking as Mrs. Weasley's cock thrusted into him, he gave an open-mouthed grin, still in a daze.

"Hey… Hermione," he said, voice pitched.

Her heart surged in affection and she moved forward, clamping her mouth over his. His lips felt very much like a girl's. They kissed, faces bumping as Mr. and Mrs. Weasley filled them. Their noses puffed, their hair fell and got in their mouths and was brushed aside again. They let out soft moans of enjoyment as their tongues met, their bodies thrumming and surging and enjoying where they were. And, watching this, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley smiled.


	8. Epilogue

Quite some time later, all activities within The Burrow wound down and each person returned to their own beds. A chorus of snoring filled the topmost room, where lay four boys, who appeared as deeply asleep as their snoring was volumous. However, at once, two of these came to a stop. Their owners opened their eyes and stared at the ceiling.

"Well George," said one.

"Yes Fred?" said the other.

"I think we can say the Mellow-Mallows are still safely within the testing-phase."

"Indeed."

They thought for a moment, considering their actions.

"They hardly even had an effect on that spat with Percy," said one.

"Yes, that was bad," said the other.

"And of course Mother is probably immune."

"Shame the same can't be said about the side-effects."

The twins fell silent. Their younger brother's snores punctuated the semi-darkness, as well as the soft breaths from Harry from the other corner. Fred grasped the large, rubber mouse he had under the blanket with him (and no, that's not a euphemism).

"Brilliant idea, though, mixing them in with the ice cream," said George.

"Yes. One of our finest."

The mouse let out a muted squeak.

"So what, Disaster Clean-Up Level Four?"

"I think Two ought to do… we noted memory loss during our trial, didn't we?"

"Indeed we did, that's a fair point."

Another moment passed.

"Do you wonder... what exactly happened during that trial?" said George.

Fred drew a tight-lipped grimace, both disturbed and amused.

"Let's not think about that, shall we?"

"No, let's not."

Another moment passed. It went without saying, as many things did between the twins, that they would forever hold this night in secret between themselves. If anyone were to find out about what had transpired, it would of course make the testing of all their toffees and snackboxes and other potential products quite impossible. So it was very important they leave no evidence behind for discovery. It'd be messy work, but progress often was.

Another moment.

They both took in breaths simultaneously.

"Right," they said, and got out of bed.


	9. Bonus: In the Warmth of Candlelight

Bodies still glowing, Hermione and girl-Harry left the room and re-entered the cool, dark stairwell. Mrs. Weasley stood at the threshold of the doorway.

"Now you two get to bed," she said, finger pointed. "Big day tomorrow, and you'll have to get up bright and early!"

"We will!" said Hermione earnestly.

"Yeah," said girl-Harry.

The door closed, and she and Harry looked at each other.

"I wasn't expecting… all of that," girl-Harry laughed, touching his still-long hair.

"What'd you think?" said Hermione, grinning.

"I don't know," he said, looking down at himself. His masculinity had returned solely in regards to his groin, but everywhere else - his legs, hips, waist, arms, sloping shoulders, gentle skin texture, face - was all still quite feminine.

"It was a lot different than… than normal," Harry said, smiling bashfully. "It kept going."

"Yeah?" she said.

"Although… I _was _sort of wondering what it felt like to have… you know, breasts."

His chest, unlike the rest of him, had remained quite flat, scrawny, and boyish.

A smirk tugged at the edge of Hermione's mouth.

"Well," she said, "we could ask."

"What do you mean?"

Hermione hesitated, wondering how Harry might react, then bit her lip mischievously and knocked on the bedroom door again. Harry's eyebrows shot up at her, but the next moment Mrs. Weasley was back again, warm light spilling onto the stairwell.

"Yes? What is it?"

"We were wondering…" said Hermione, checking Harry with a look (he seemed pretty nonplussed) "...if you could help Harry, erm, _along _a bit more."

"Help him along?" said Mrs. Weasley, looking between them. "In regard to what?"

"Well, he was sort of wondering…"

"...If you wouldn't mind letting me try breasts," Harry said, catching on. Immediately, he got embarrassed again and looked away.

"He was just wondering what they felt like," Hermione said supportively.

Mrs. Weasley put a hand on her hip and gave them a look.

"And what was that about getting to bed?"

"Oh we are -!" said Harry.

"We completely intend to -!"

"It's just, I haven't experienced much like this," said Harry.

"And we were thinking to make the most of it," added Hermione.

Mrs. Weasley considered, then relented with a smile.

"Well, okay then. Let me get my wand."

She disappeared, door left cracked. Her and Mr. Weasley's muted voices and laughter came through the doorway. Hermione looked at Harry, but he was looking at himself again. Then Mrs. Weasley appeared, her long rod of light wood in hand.

"Come here, Harry dear," she said, going to Harry and pulling him in against her body.

"Oh," said Harry, startled.

Hermione's cheeks warmed. The sight of Mrs. Weasley - someone so motherly to Harry (and quite naked), pulling him in (while he was _also _entirely in the nude... and perhaps more daughter-ly in appearance at the moment, despite his genitalia) - was quite alarmingly intimate. She watched Mrs. Weasley's tip wander up Harry's lithe form, drawing attention to his belly button and the spread of skin up to his chest, which was goosebumped in the cold of the stairwell. Combine that image with the thought of how Harry had just been thrown into full-body clenching earlier from Mrs. Weasley's enormous, thrusting cock, and the idea that the post-orgasm aura must still be simmering in his body - it was enough to get anyone going.

Mrs. Weasley's wand went up Harry's chest. Hermione heard her mutter the Engorgement Charm. Harry's eyes followed the tip of the wand, his breaths nervous, but his form still clutched securely by Mrs. Weasley, who had him at the hip and was holding back a smile. In the warm light of the doorway, Hermione watched Harry's nipples stiffen. They developed, tenting outward. The skin around them pillowed, getting fatty, and rounded. They swelled outward, getting bigger, and before she knew it hung out over his ribs. Suddenly, there they were - boobs. Hermione gave a half-grin in bewilderment. They nearly looked bigger than hers. But what really stood out, she thought, was how even _more_ girlish Harry had become.

"There you go, love," Mrs. Weasley whispered, face close to Harry's.

"Thanks," Harry said, smiling shyly.

Hermione felt her skin tingle. Her attention went to her own groin, hidden in her pajama bottoms, which were wet and warm with Mr. Weasley's leftovers. Without thinking, she felt into her waistline and indeed found her thighs slick with fluid - the contact made her desire climb. She quickly pulled out her hand and (not wanting to wipe anything on her pajamas) stuck her fingers in her mouth - she gagged, face wrinkling at the tangy, bitter taste. It made her think of how bleach smelled.

"Now you two don't stay up too late," Mrs. Weasley said.

"Will - will this be gone by morning?" Harry asked, gesturing to himself.

"Yes, don't worry your pretty head," said Mrs. Weasley, lifting Harry's chin with a finger. "They're not strong charms. In all likelihood, you'll be back to your old self by the hour."

"Oh - okay."

She gave each of them another look as a reminder of the bedtime, then returned to her room and shut the door. Hermione watched Harry heft his breasts with an arm, and noticed a thin gold bracelet on his wrist. It only accentuated Harry's femininity further.

"That must be a side-effect of her magic," said Hermione.

"Hmm?"

"Your bracelet," she said, pointing. "I've read it happens sometimes with charmwork. Unintended side-effects."

"They feel heavy," said Harry, holding his breasts. "But... not too different."

Hermione started forward - then hesitated.

"May I?"

"Sure," said Harry.

Hermione touched them. They were warm from the transformation. Gingerly, she felt where the breasts melded into his armpits. She put her thumbs on his nipples, and Harry laughed, flinching.

"They're sensitive," he said.

Hermione smiled. They met eyes. They looked at each other's lips. Hermione wanted mess around with him, and was sure he was thinking the same.

"Let's go up to my room," she said.

"Okay."

She stepped back let Harry lead the way up the stairs. His plump buttocks revolved back and forth in front of her, but instead of the mounds of vulva peeking out between his thighs Hermione saw the taught, wrinkly transition to bollocks.

They passed the bathroom (the bottom of the doorway had candlelight, and Hermione guessed someone was inside) and Percy's door, which was slightly ajar. Low grunts could be heard.

"What's going on?" whispered Harry.

"Maybe he's having a wank," Hermione said back, pushing Harry's warm backside on up the stairs. However - her curiosity was strong, and she peeked inside the room.

Ginny was atop Charlie, his ruddy flesh sunk deep in her vagina. Her pale thighs were spread on either side of him, opening the space between her cheeks, which Bill was filling with his own self. Hermione's face went hot - Ginny's two brothers, penetrating her. Her small body was twisted, her hand holding the side of Bill's head. Their eyes were half closed and their mouths breathed in each other's faces. Bill's muscled arm was holding her, secured around her torso. Her scarlet hair cascaded down toward Charlie like a waterfall, who was looking up at her with a dumb, apeish expression, his calloused fingers clutched on the small of her back. As Hermione watched, Bill and Ginny's mouths met. They kissed deeply, Ginny letting out soft moans as her brother held her, and Charlie's thrusts bounced her.

Hermione shut the door and chased Harry up the stairs. Percy must be in the bathroom, she thought... the miserable wanker. Maybe he'd gotten off, come to his senses, and secluded himself in shame to wait for everyone to finish. A derisive chuckle rose, but it met an unexpected tendril of sympathy and fizzled out.

They got to Ginny's room and (of course) found it empty.

"Where's Ginny?" Harry asked.

Hermione thought quickly - "Maybe that was her in the bathroom."

"Is she coming back?"

"Oh, I don't know… probably not for a while," she said. "She likes to read magazines."

"Oh."

Hermione needed to preserve the momentum.

"Which means we have some time," she said, and pulled Harry into the room.

* * *

Hermione let Harry walk into the middle of the room to take it in. She closed the door behind them - her heart was beating. She was nervous, but excited. She'd long known about her own probable sexuality (she'd come across an article last summer while at the doctor's; explaining how female sexual attraction was likely a spectrum, with a bell-curve probability distribution, coming as an evolved behavior to reduce in-fighting in the harem-structure of primate mating behavior... meaning her _own _sexuality was likely somewhere in the middle of that scale too -) but she hadn't yet had the chance to explore things. She'd thought about it, considered it, and made herself open to the idea (for if you were a true pursuent of knowledge, you mustn't leave any stone unturned!), and slowly, had begun to recognize things in other girls that she _did _find, well… _appealing_. Her eyes went down the feminine backside of Harry, following his curves, noting the spaces between the insides of his arms and body, the roundness of his bosom, the gentle sloping of his legs and the inverted-triangle of space between them… a space which was, as it happened, _filled_. Curiosity and craving swelled in her body. This was, some might say, the ideal opportunity - and as someone who had a personal goal to explore things and become as experienced and knowledgeable in as many aspects of life as she could, it was one she surely had to take full advantage of.

"Odd about the lack of lights," Harry said, wandering around the moonlit room. "I mean in the magical world, that is."

"I know," said Hermione. "But hold on -"

She went to Ginny's candles on the bedside table and pinched their wicks, pulling out their flames as they were enchanted to do. The room brightened with warm light, and she turned to find Harry watching her. He glanced away immediately, as shy boys were oft to do, but it was odd seeing such a pretty girl doing it. It made her feel like she was pretty too. But Harry's awkwardness pulled at her sympathy. He must not be knowing what to do with himself, she thought - which meant she had to lead the way.

"So, you were wanting to see how it was to have breasts," she said, approaching him.

"Yeah, I…" Harry started, then laughed it off, not knowing where to look. "Sorry, is it - is it cold in here?"

"No," she said, approaching him even closer. "But I'm not in the nude."

Hesitantly, watching him for signs of protest, she touched his hips. He still didn't seem to know what to do with himself. She and him were about the same height, she thought, with Harry a little taller.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Brilliant. I'm just - I just don't know - I guess I'm feeling out of sorts."

"Are you wanting to… fool around?"

"Yes," he said immediately. "I mean, yes, of course."

"That's good," she said. "Then relax." She looked at his full, girlish lips. "And maybe I can warm you up. If you'd like."

"I think I'd… be okay with that," he said.

She just had to do it, then. They shared another glance, then she kissed him. He didn't pull away. She kissed him again. Gentle breath came through his and onto her face. He started to kiss her back, his lips soft. She felt his dainty fingers touch her waist, and she took his wrist and guided him on, showing him it was okay to touch her. He did so. He felt around to the small of her back, and she directed his fingers beneath her waistline. She moved closer as they snogged. She put a hand on his breast and felt up to his collarbone. Again, uncertainty rose inside her - the fact of Harry being such a pretty girl was a bit intimidating - but he seemed to be fully invested, so she had to trust it. She took a step forward and walked him backward toward the bed. He paused, looking at her, his cheeks flushed.

"Go ahead and take a seat."

He grinned, then stepped back and sat down on the bed. He leaned backward on his hands.

"Stick out your chest," she said.

He did so, watching her with his emerald eyes. She looked down his body, at his breasts, both shaded and warmly lit in the candlelight. She looked at his stomach, smooth and petite. She saw the cock in his groin, swelling with each beat of her heart. It drew her curiosity. She'd never given a BJ before. Following with the thought, she got down on her knees and moved toward him.

"Wait, Hermione…" he said, pulling his feet in. He hit the foot of the bed.

"What?" she said.

"You don't have to…"

She walked forward on her knees and went between his legs again. His cock was right in front of her, getting larger by the minute. She touched it - it was warm - and pointed it upward toward his belly, pressing her palm against its muscled, veined underside. She felt it thump and swell at her contact.

"Maybe I want to," she said.

He didn't say anything. His chin was chubby from the angle. She took ahold of his flesh and moved it against her cheek. She closed her eyes, thinking of the conversations she'd overheard of the other girls in the Gryffindor dorm, and remembered one or two scenes she'd come across on late-night television when she was putting off her summer Astronomy homework. Opening her eyes, she turned her mouth, bringing his flesh in contact with the edge of her lips. In the back of her mind, unbidden and unwelcome, a thought rose in protest - this was his _dick,_ she thought, something he _peed_ with and got all sweaty and nasty in his trousers - but she fought it off, telling herself he'd just been cleaned by Mrs. Weasley's charms, and that she had an immune system that was _perfectly capable _of handling this sort of thing.

She brought her lower lip in contact with his skin and looked up at Harry's wide eyes. She dragged herself up the underside of his shaft, coating it sparsely in saliva. Her lip inside quickly dried, so she extended her tongue, pressing up him and smearing the underside with her saliva. Even with the charm, she could taste the oil and salt of his skin. She met the smooth ridge of his dome. Then she paused and reversed, working back down, and licked upward again - you were supposed to do a bit of "teasing", she knew. Then, finally, she enveloped the tip. It was very smooth. She took him in, lowering her head, his flesh sliding between her lips. She sucked, gently, his flesh filling the interior of her mouth, then brought him out again and did another pass with her tongue.

She kept working. Hair fell in her face, and she tucked it behind an ear. She kept looking up at his expression, girly and mesmerized between his saggy breasts. It was sort of an odd thing to be doing, she thought - but, of course, it wasn't for _her._ And he seemed to be enjoying it.

She focused back down on the thin, sparse pubes of Harry's pelvic mound. She took him in, working down toward the area, but stopped before going to deep - she didn't want to gag. She bobbed, spending time on the dome, drawing him out and licking. She grasped him and tugged gently, twisting, feeling his hot flesh slide in her grip. Harry gasped, his voice feminine. She looked up at him - each time she checked him, she kept finding herself surprised at a girl being there. Words came to her mind. Hermaphrodite. Intersexual. Futanari. Gynandromorph. All things she'd come across in her reading, that meant someone possessing both male and female parts. But then she spotted the familiar Harry characteristics, and re-made the familiarity of him in her mind.

"Should I -" said Harry, breathlessly - "should I tell you when I'm about to, you know…?"

She stopped, taking him out of her mouth and letting his warm, slippery cock rest against her face. She'd heard that once a guy shot their shot, they were pretty much done.

"Yes," she said. "Did you want to… er, you know, have sex with me?"

"I, yeah," he said. "Yes. I mean, did you want me to?"

"Most definitely," she said.

"Well alright then," he laughed.

She got back to work, but hardly a minute passed before Harry was starting to tense, and touch her head, and push her hair from her face, and for his gasping to turn more and more frequent…

"Her, Hermione," he said, "I think… I think you should slow -"

Immediately she stopped, pulling away and leaving him sticking up in the air of the room. She hung back, gripping his knees for support. His chest rose and fell with breath.

"My god," he said, staring at his throbbing mast.

"Are you going to finish?" she said.

"No, I think I'm okay."

She smiled.

"Good, then.

She got up and climbed on top of him, her knees sinking into the mattress. She looked at his perky breasts again... at his chest center, where lay the smooth valley of his sternum, and the dips of his collarbones... the smooth transition to his neck, his lips, the narrow bridge of his nose, and his gorgeous, emerald eyes, and magically thinned eyebrows. Down at her crotch, she knew his girth stood in waiting. She could feel it pressed against her pajamas, and she wanted it inside her, but she held off. She caressed his head and kissed the smooth skin of his neck, excitement building at his transformed state. It was almost like he was a different person. But this wasn't just anyone, she knew. This was Harry, her friend. She came up and looked him in the eyes. They kissed.

"Did you…" said Harry, during breaths, "...did you want me to... do you now? Like...?"

"Eat me?"

"Yeah," he laughed.

It sounded crude, she knew, but it was the simplest way to put it. She thought about it, and found the idea appealing.

"Yeah," she said.

"How do you want to…?"

"Let's do this…"

They switched positions, Harry standing up from the bed and Hermione taking a seat on the edge. Then she remembered how the wood floor had started to hurt her knees and reconsidered.

"Up here actually," she said, scooting back against her pillows. There was was almost enough room for two people, if they scrunched themselves up a bit. "Is that enough space?"

"I think so," said Harry.

Hermione did a quick mental gauge of what they were going to do and how it would work on the mattress, and realized Harry would have to be on his knees and probably would have his feet hanging off the end.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," said Harry, studying things. "Let's give it a go."

"Alright," she said.

She gathered some pillows behind her as Harry went to the foot of the bed and clambered toward her. His breasts hung down, which made him laugh (and her too), but as he approached, her groin sparked with the thought of what was coming. Nerves jittery, she decided she ought to take off her top and pulled it up over her head while Harry got knocked about between her knees.

"Sorry!"

"It's fine," he said.

She tossed the pajama top aside and the cool air of the room sank down over her stomach and chest. The sudden change in temperature made her nipples stiffen.

"Want me to -?" said Harry, putting fingers on her waistband.

"Yeah," she said.

He took ahold and pulled them down. She rocked from side to side as the waistband passed beneath her bottom. Harry got up on his knees, full, feminine body displayed before her (as well as his half-erect penis) and tugged the bottoms off the rest of the way, leaving her as bare and naked as he was.

"Okay," she laughed.

He got on his hands and knees, lowering himself toward her. He laughed at the oddness of the situation, which made her laugh too, and they had to get themselves psyched back into the mood. He came in closer, splaying himself out. With his legs spread he was actually able to get pretty comfortable on the mattress, which was good. He lifted her legs over his shoulders, and she kept herself relaxed. He studied her, his breath on her groin. Then, without warning, he went in and licked her.

"Oh!" she said.

He laughed, looking up at her. With him in that position - at that angle - with his penis hidden beneath his body, and his girlish face, and his mess of hair and feminine backside - it was very easy for her to think of him not as Harry, but as a girl she was experimenting with.

He licked her, tracing up the divide in her mounds. His tongue was hot and thin. He licked again, and she sucked in breath, which made him look up at her again with his eyes. She got an idea - with just a few touches, she could really bring the fantasy home.

"Wait," she said.

"What's wrong?"

She smiled - "I was just thinking, if you wanted to try on a bit of makeup?"

He thought about it.

"Might as well," he said.

"Grand," she laughed.

They rearranged themselves on the bed, her groin once again having to simmer down, but she knew it'd be tended to shortly. They sat across from each other. Hermione got her bag up off the floor - her makeup kit was minimal (and, in fact, had only been used on one occasion, as more of a test than anything) - but she'd seen Lily Moon doing Lavender Brown's makeup before, and the other girls attending to their own faces in the mirror. It was definitely something she'd have to think about with the Ball coming up this year. But in the meantime, here was Harry.

"Go on and close your eyes," Hermione said.

He did so, and really, it was almost enough at that point. Anyone looking in the room would simply see two girls sitting across from each other. But Hermione wanted to go through with it, because his eyes were so distinguished and recognizable that even as he was they were enough to remind her of his boyhood.

Hermione picked out her mascara bottle and unscrewed the cap-brush, breaking the seal of dry, glued mascara on the threads. She scooted closer to Harry, their knees bumping ("Sorry," they both said), then, keeping her hand steady, moved the narrow brush tip toward Harry's eyelid.

"Okay, here it goes," she said.

Harry took a breath, but otherwise waited patiently. She touched the brush down and pulled it across his skin. She did short strokes at first, getting familiar with it (messing up once but cleaning it up with a tissue) and made her way across, deciding to go for short, pointed wings. She narrated her actions to Harry, and he said small things like "huh" and "okay". They decided against lipstick (his lips were bright enough), and as Hermione finished she felt the strange, unexplored mood arousing inside her.

"Alright, you can open your eyes!"

He did so. The effect was striking - there was hardly anything you could find masculine about Harry now. But she had an idea and wanted to go one step further.

"I've got some perfume," she said, and showed Harry the four little spray bottles (which she actually did put to use). Three were floral (with rose, jasmine, vanilla, and juniper being some of their scents), and the fourth more beachy, with coconut and pine. "I want you to choose one - you don't need more than a spritz on your pits and neck - and I'll leave the room -"

"- Leave the room?"

"So it's a surprise!" she said. "Then we can get back to things."

Girl-Harry raised his eyebrows, and the ghost of a smirk showed on his lips.

"Alright," he said.

She laughed awkwardly and clambered out of bed, stepping into the stairwell. The landing was cold and dark and she stood there with her arms crossed over her breasts, hoping nobody would happen across her. But the next second the strange, effeminate, almost-Harry voice called her back in - "Okay!"

She re-entered Ginny's room and found him lounging there in the candlelight, just a tense leg or shoulder away from being completely relaxed. The slight uncertainty in his eyes somehow made him look even cuter, and a surge ran toward her groin. She could nearly feel her pupils dilate.

"Oh my god," she said.

She approached the bed and climbed atop him, putting him backward on his elbows. He'd chosen the beach scent, which she rarely used and so was perfect for this. She grabbed his face, fingers going into his hair, and pulled their mouths together. They kissed deeply.

"Hmmph," said Harry, "hmmm."

Harry moved a hand up to the back of her head. She put her hand on his chest and grabbed his boob, pressing it upward. She slid over his nipple and felt up to his shoulder… to his neck… made it to his ear and felt the back of his head, his skull moving as they kissed. She let her tongue wander out and find his, and coaxed it to move with hers. They puffed breath from their noses.

She pulled away, staring at him in heat. His mouth hung open as he watched her - a confirmation of his arousal. She noticed his cock beneath her, trapped beneath her thigh, thick and pulsing. With a quick hop she allowed it to spring upward toward his belly. She pressed against it, parting her flesh as she slid up the underside of his shaft. She was oozing. She wanted him in her - she needed him in her - but she held off. _Not yet,_ she told herself. They had to make the most of this.

Climbing backward, she crawled off him (picking up her makeup kit and tossing it carefully on the bedside table) and went around his backside, resuming her position on the pillows.

"So where were we?" she said, breathless.

He cracked a smile - "Thought we might be skipping that bit."

"Nooo," she said, wiggling her hips at him.

"Okay," he said, humoring her.

He crawled backward and she pushed herself down the bed after him, arching a hand behind her on the wall. He settled back into his prior position, dick and breasts flattened on the mattress. His bubbled booty stuck up in the air, his lower back a luscious valley of skin that rose upward and presented his shoulders, arms, hands, and girl-face.

Harry brought her legs over his shoulders, re-centering himself. His fingers clutched the outsides of her thighs. She should have painted his nails, she thought - but no, it was too late now; it would be way too much to ask. He looked down at her crotch, face framed by his mess of hair, his breath on her bare skin. He lowered his mouth and lovely lips, looking up at her with his gorgeous, lidded eyes, then brought his warm tongue in contact with her flesh.

"Huhh," she moaned.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he set to work. His contacts were short at first, but then he went longer until finally clamping his mouth down and going for her middle. Her face grew hot, her breaths short. She watched him. One of her hands felt her breast, squeezing her nipple, and the other went for his hair and brushed it from his face.

"Can you… can you go lower?" she said.

Harry met her eyes and obliged, his thin, dense tongue wiggling deeper.

"The sides," she said. He followed her instructions. "The middle… off to the side, please, kiss the edge... and now the top… the top…"

He started to know his way around, and she let him go for it, breathing. It was so _hot,_ she thought - and so easy to pretend he was another girl. She fell into the fantasy, coming to pieces each time girl-Harry glanced up at her, loving the way he held her legs and pulled them apart. Just a while ago she was here by herself, crying at her misfortune, the room dark, Ginny asleep as she worked her body up with her own fingers. But now she had a strange, beautiful girl with her, and her legs were spread as she writhed her tongue against her, building her up. It was incredible. Hermione's body swirled like a bonfire, Harry's tongue a billow on her flames, rushing and surging the flame up her body. Her legs started to twitch. Her stomach tensed involuntarily. She grappled at his head, huffing breaths - "Ah, ah, ah!"

He must have taken this as a sign, because he began to slow, and in the midst of her surges she knew she had to salvage things. They needed their bodies against each other. She needed to move quickly. Jerky and spasmatic, she got to her knees and gestured him to the pillow.

"You go - you go there," she said, "and I'll be down this way -"

"Like this?" said Harry, taking her spot.

"Yeah," she said, crawling toward his feet, "but further toward this way, toward the middle of the bed… like that!"

They went horizontal again, bodies aligning, and hastily she settled herself over his face again. His hands clamped on her backside, pulling her in, and she found herself face-to-face with the ruddy, fleshy cock still attached to his body. Things she had to tend to, she thought, it was only proper. She went in and directed his shaft toward her mouth. Harry's tongue was busy in her crotch. She licked his dome. She pulled with her lips, and smeared saliva, and enveloped him, burrowing her face far into his smooth, feminine legs. She pulled away and went deeper, kissing and and mouthing at his bullocks, applying gentle suction on his testes before coming up and taking his girth in again. She bobbed her lips, moving her head forward, up, back, down, and forward again - like a bicycle pedal, she thought, the pattern-matching part of her mind pulling the analogy out of the blue. She must've been doing something right, because she heard soft sounds of pleasure coming from him, so she relaxed, letting herself submerge in pleasure and do the same, the sounds coming out in fractured, unseemly grunts - but she didn't give a shit about seemly things right then.

They went like this for another few minutes before her eyes went to Harry's brown bunghole and realized they were being stupid... the _whole point _of him looking like a girl was to actually _look _at him! So she pulled away, answering his protests with a hand that forced him back onto the mattress. She swung her leg and mounted him - he simply watched her, hands up and limp on either side of his face, breasts sagging - and she looked down. Once more, she aligned herself and pressed against his shaft. His girth slipped beneath her, and she went down and up again, gasping, her own liquids coating it again. They met eyes.

He stared at her, mouth open. She took him in her hands and pressed his dome against her, parting her lips. She moved it down, orienting it (his shaft was so long, she thought) and once it was in position - sank. She settled onto him. He was bigger than Percy, denser than Mr. Weasley, and by the time she was atop his ballsack he'd nearly filled her entirely.

"Ohhh," she said.

She began to move. She went up, almost pulling off, and settled back down, Harry rubbing inside her. She met his eyes. Her mouth gaped, just as his. She moved her hips, and leaned forward, falling over him, her hair tumbling off her shoulder. Their breasts pressed and their nipples glanced off each other. He squeezed his, bulging them upward, and she put her mouth over his nipple. She sucked and pulled, licking it like she thought would be pleasurable, all the while sinking onto his dick. His bracelet glinted in the candlelight. Suddenly, she tasted a tang - something filmy, creamy - instinctively, she swallowed, then pulled back and saw a droplet of white by his nipple.

"Was - was that -?" he asked.

She nodded, bursting into laughter, but before he could do anything more she clamped her mouth over his. She laughed through her nose, and a minute later they were moving with each other again. She moved her hands up his arms and intertwined their fingers. They kissed, his tongue warm, and let out soft moans with each breath. She, and Harry, the almost-girl.

She only had a moment to relish it. In sudden decision he seized her and turned her onto the mattress, revolving his body on top of her. She was surprised, but excited at the sudden shift - she laid back and girl-Harry re-oriented his penis and went inside her again.

He thrusted. Hermione watched him, her own face now showing that apeish expression, but she didn't care. Harry stared at her, his cheeks blushed. She was enthralled by the intensity of his gaze. His breaths came out in pitched grunts, his breasts swinging as he pushed into her, aggressively, assertively. He took her face and they met mouths. His other hand slid beneath her armpit, pressing the mattress for support as his hot body moved atop her.

He settled lower, thrusting with his hips. She tented her body with her legs and pressed against him. His breasts squished against hers. Her hands went up his back, which was warm and fit with tight muscles. He moved off her face, kissing her jaw, down her neck. She let herself go limp and wrapped her legs around him, and discovered his butt was firm. His sounds became deeper, more masculine. He was transforming, right atop her. She clutched his arms and found them not thin and soft, but dense and sturdy. He was returning to masculinity, she realized, to being a boy - but the prospect surged her mood. It fired her up. It wasn't his girl-hood had become stale, but the idea of him changing once more, of leaving his gentle femininity and resuming something more gruff and brutish and natural, that made her fire swell.

His lips found her ear. She clutched his head, and found his hair returned to its normal length. He was back, she knew. Her friend, returned to his own self. She could smell him. And with that came another realization - _they'd crossed a boundary_. They had gone beyond friendship. Now they were something more. And, quite unexpectedly, it clicked with her. It felt right. With the families they were from, and the experiences they were having, and how well they connected with one another… everything seemed to fit. Her heart surged, pumping full. No matter what changes the future held, she trusted him, and the solidity of their friendship. And as long as they had that, they could do anything together. _Be_ anything together. It was wonderful, and with that thought, she felt herself slipping into ecstasy, giving in to Harry's thrusts, her head jerking to the side and hands scrambling across his back for purchase.

"Oh - hohh - Harry," she said.

And then he came, cock clenching and spurting warmth deep inside her. He fell heavily atop her body as her muscles jerked and pleasure flooded over her, again and again.


End file.
